


Cigarette Smoke

by dancer_of_the_hellfire_rumba



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Brief smoking, Dean and Y/n are angsty grungy teenagers, F/M, Fluff, John is a terrible father, Mutual Pining, No Sex, steaminess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 13:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16517708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancer_of_the_hellfire_rumba/pseuds/dancer_of_the_hellfire_rumba
Summary: "See you in a bit.” And she hangs up. Dean pulls the phone away from his ear and holds it in his lap. He’s almost breathless. Heart light, brain hazy like he’s drugged.“You have that stupid smile on your face, again. Y/ n’s coming, isn’t she,” thirteen year-old Sammy states teasingly as he walks in the room with his hands in his pockets and Dean bites his lip to hold his smile from stretching further at the thought of her.“Sh-shut up.”“Nice one. Very creative.”





	Cigarette Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve worked on this since last November, it’s actually kinda very crazy, I can’t believe I’m posting it. Without further ado, I present to you my baby but also the bane of my existence.

Dean is addicted.

Shit, how cliché is he, just by thinking that sentence? Just by noticing the up-beat rhythm his heart starts whenever she is around and the butterflies—no. Not butterflies. The…  _manly_  butterf- the  _moths_. No. His stomach doesn’t fill up with tiny, manly wing flaps of – _very-_ manly moths in his stomach.

_Fuck_ , he’s done for.

Thinking about it, he doesn’t care much. She’s a good addiction, all things considered. A pleasurable addiction that does nothing but plague his thoughts like a pleasant, chocolate-smelling disease.

“ _Dean?”_ His name rolling from her lips,  _God._ Manly,  _manly_ moths. Very manly.

“Heya, sweetheart,” he says lightly and her huff of both annoyance and mirth echoes through the speaker.

“ _What do you want this time, Winchester.”_

“An opinion.”

_“Humor me.”_

“You see, I’m baby-sitting Sammy, today, and I was wondering what pizza you’d like to eat when you join us.” She laughs.  He can picture her glancing at the floor with wayward strands of her hair falling in front of her beautiful eyes briefly, before a sheepish smile crosses her face as she looks back at him. His heart ties into a knot that squeezes more beats out of it.

_“Who said I’m available?”_

“Is that a serious question?”

“ _I might have a date for all you know.”_ He’d be damned if she did. Thankfully he can decipher the teasing in her voice.

“You do have a date. With Sammy and I. Now choose and come over, maybe we’ll have spared you a slice by the time you get here.” She groans dejectedly.

“ _You are incorrigible.”_

“My girl and her big words. C’mon, sweetheart, take your pick.”

“ _Like you need to hear me say it, you already know the answer.”_

“One large with extra pepperoni, coming right up. Now get your ass over here.”

“ _Atta boy. See you in a bit.”_ And she hangs up. Dean pulls the phone away from his ear and holds it in his lap. He’s almost breathless. Heart light, brain hazy like he’s drugged.

“You have that stupid smile on your face, again. Y/ n’s coming, isn’t she,” thirteen year-old Sammy states teasingly as he walks in the room with his hands in his pockets and Dean bites his lip to hold his smile from stretching further at the thought of her.

“Sh-shut up.”

“Nice one. Very creative.”

“Shut your pie-hole, Sammy.” The eldest Winchester sends him a bitch-face, but Sam’s teasing smile doesn’t falter.

* * *

He can’t- he can’t  _breathe_.

His heart is at it again. Desperation clawing at his insides and pain, pain, pain. Images of long blonde hair, kind eyes, that one Beatles song that’s the cause of his old vinyl rotting in a corner (he just  _can’t_  play it), the one that his brain is now mocking him with because it won’t stop playing in his head. All these decorations around his house had to be bought and put up by  _someone_  but now they’re dusty and old because that someone is  _gone_.

The phone rings.

_“Mungh?”_  She sounds annoyed and asleep. Dammit, he shouldn’t have called.

“Y/n?”

_“Dee?”_  Her nickname for him makes his heartbeat quicken. He sniffles and clutches at his shirt, air seemingly too thin, not enough. “Is everything alright?”

“Kid I—” He shakily breathes in. “It’s- It’s mom’s birthday.” He hears her mutter an ‘ _oh shit’_  then rustling.

_“Where are you?”_

“Wh-what?”

_“Right now, where are you?_ ” He hesitates.

“Home?”

_“Hang on I’m coming.”_

* * *

Dean is blurry eyed, stumbling in his kitchen. He tries to keep quiet as to not wake up his little brother but he cannot function enough to be too careful. He doesn’t bother flipping the lights on as he flops on the nearest chair.

His head rolls back, eyes locking on the ceiling.

Everything  _hurts_.

He starts blaming himself again, because how can he allow himself to have fun when she has no life to live? How can he allow himself to smile when she deserved it more than anyone in the world? How can he be  _happy_ , as if everything is just  _okay?_

He forgot. He can’t believe he just  _forgot_.

He was five steps away from where he is sittingnow, laughing, chatting up his life-long crush, watching a movie, eating crappy, cheap pizza (he’d only had ten bucks, couldn’t afford anything better, Sam needs a new jacket, winter is vastly approaching) and it just- it escaped his mind. He let loose and  _forgot_. What a son.

All he ever wanted was to make her proud.

But he’s failing at that too. High school is kicking his ass and his teachers seem to have given up on him entirely. He’ll skip the last couple classes because he can’t bear the thought of wasting three more hours in this mind-liquefying dump when there are so many things he has to do. So many boxes he has to tick in his Care for Sammy to-do list, from grocery shopping to work to everything in between. The garage’s working hours take up the rest of his free time and there’s no time for homework. His grades are plummeting; it’s all going to shit.

But without grades there’s no degree and with no degree there’s no job that will pay the bills properly.

And Dad is off somewhere, gone for days, sometimes weeks. And when he returns it’s all yelling and bruises Dean has to hide under his flannels, breaking things and the stench of alcohol that hehas already spent two days trying to clear out.

He curses at everything. He curses at the universe, he curses at his dad for not taking care of her enough, of  _them_  enough, at fate for ridding him of the first person he could call home by tossing them in flames, curses at  _God_  for doing this to him, for taking her life even though she deserved  _everything_ and leaving him there alone to fix everything _._

He wants to punch something. Or someone. Preferably his old man.

A knock on the door makes him jerk his head up, every muscle on his body tensing even more than it had been. He pushes himself to his feet, forcefully opening the front door and ready to beat up any sorry bastard that stands behind it.

Instead, though, everything stills. Because his piercing green eyes, the ones that are teary and red and exhausted, the ones with the tiny flecks that you could only see under the soft caress of sunrays, those eyes lock with hers.

He doesn’t get to form any type of sound, because she’s wrapping her arms around his neck as tightly as she can, pulling his face in her collar bone. Her fingers thread through his soft locks and his shoulders drop, everything in his body going slack. He slumps against her, arms wrapping around her waist.

“It’s alright, Dee,” she whispers, pressing a teary kiss on his temple. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”

* * *

Dean is warm.

The right side of his body is cozily tepid and in his hazy state of mind he doesn’t want to pull away. He can’t will his muscles to move so he just sits, an inch away from his sleepy wonderland, reveling in the comfort of warmth.

With a sharp inhale, his eyes snap open. He blinks. His eyelids feel swollen and his mouth is dry, but he feels  _good_. Well, he feels okay, emotionally speaking, kinda like his chest is filled with pillow stuffing, full but numb, like if he breathes any deeper his lungs will bump against something, but he is comfortable and pleasantly warm.

If he could, he’d stretch his brain like he’s stretching his stiff spine right now, as if to wake it up. Smooth realization falls over him. There’s a weight on his right shoulder. Slowly, he rolls his head on his other cheek and looks down at her.

Her mouth is slightly open, lips full, pink and dry. Her hair is a mess, falling behind her with stray strands sticking to her neck and face and he’s sure if she were awake she’d make a failed attempt to fix it with her fingers. Her hand sits on his chest, a handful of inches away from his neck. A long, content breath later (she still smells like chocolate, God), he tucks her hair behind her ear gently, wraps his arm around her and she curls closer to him, nuzzling her nose just slightly, right over his heart. He feels it fluttering, shakily breathing as her forehead rests against his cheek.

He blinks slowly, pictures of last night appearing behind his eyelids. Her on his door step, wrapping him in her arms. The scent of lavender and chocolate on her clothes. Sitting on the roof and pulling her close, his arm around her waist, because of the cold. The stars. The moon. The air. The silence. The roof tiles under them. Her warm breath on his neck. Her arm around his waist. Him- no _._ _No_ , he has to have dreamt that. There’s no way- It’s gotta be his imagination, it can’t be?

He kissed her?

And from the looks of it, she hasn’t run for the hills quite yet.

Dean turns his head and presses a kiss between her eyebrows because that’s the only place he can reach with his tired muscles. Her hand goes to his jaw, thumb on his chin, lightly stroking there until he pulls away. It falls on his neck then, warm and exhausted, expressing her affection without wanting to move much, as if to keep her dream from escaping her sleepy grasp.

She mumbles something, pad of her thumb going to his jaw and stroking lightly. She’s still asleep, probably on the fifth dream by now. He smiles at how natural this is, how she does it in her  _sleep_  and gently grabs her hand, holding it over his chest muscles and it’s- it’s  _nice_. No, better than nice. The flowers blooming in the gaps of his ribcage, filling him with joy, he hasn’t felt like that before. He craves it, wants  _more._

He can only hope she’ll let him have it.

* * *

“ _Hello?”_

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” His cheeks hurt, smile wide and true, forming only because of her voice.

“ _Oh, it’s you again.”_  A chuckle.

“Yeah,” licking his lips. “It’s me again.”

“ _What is it this time, Winchester?”_  He can picture her expression, plucked eyebrow raised, right corner of her mouth high, a little higher than the left one, into a teasing smirk, clever cat-like eyes studying him.

“Nothin’,” he says. “I just wanted to hear your voice.” He gazes out the window of his beloved car, empty road stretching in front of him for miles. She huffs.

“ _I’m busy, dude.”_

“My ass, you are.”

“ _What’s_ that _supposed to mean_?” The smile on her voice sends his very manly months in flight mode, flapping wildly at his stomach.

“Can’t I just call my girlfriend for no reason? Is it such a crime?” Deflecting the question. Another huff.

“ _You can. Not twelve times a week though.”_

“I just-” he fumbles. “I’m, uh,”

“ _Oh no, what is it?”_

“Nothing I- I just miss you is all.” There’s silence for a second and he’s sure he said the wrong thing. Dammit he doesn’t know how to do this and it’s all just-

“ _I miss you too._ ” Quiet and tender, very much like her.

“When’re you comin’ back?”

“ _In three days._ ” He hums. “ _Dad is gonna have a house party the Saturday after I arrive.”_

“That can’t be good. What’s the occasion?”

_“I don’t know, he didn’t say. I think he just feels like using his grill again.”_ They chuckle. “ _You and Sam are invited.”_

“Your dad finally warming up to me, eh?”

“ _I think he just wants me to bring you for questioning again.”_

“Heh, yeah.” He huffs out. “I’ll be there.”

“ _Thank you.”_ And it’s all flowery gratitude and he knows he’d do anything if it’d make her happy.

* * *

“We’re being risky,” it’s a hot giggle against his lips.

“How long ‘till the inevitable cliché happens and we get caught, you think?” A secure hand on her side, warm and comfortable.

“Ten minutes? Tops?” Delicate fingers wrap lightly around the chord of his amulet. Their eyes lock, smiles wide. He pushes her gently against the side of her house, indistinct chatter being heard from the window above them. Hips to hips, she tugs at his necklace, pulling his lips down on hers. It’s all he has not to  _lose_  it.

She’s breathily giggling against his lips, one hand falling from the necklace to his chest, the other going to his hair, gripping the strands. Hooking his finger on her belt loop he pulls her impossibly closer, a silent gasp leaving her lips. Teeth biting his lip and nibbling on it. A throaty groan leaving his mouth, he rests his forehead against her.

“Shit,” he mutters, lips going to the corner of her mouth, jaw and then down her neck, nipping and teasing. Her hot breath is next to his ear and he  _loves_  the way she gasps, so small he feels it on the hitch of her breath rather than hears it and suddenly she’s arching against him. Completely fitting her curves against his body, molding to his edges and he’s pushing her against the wall. The hand that was hooked on her belt loop cups her ass, knee fitting between her legs. Fingers tug tightly at his hair, emitting a groan out of him.

“Dean,” she  _moans_  it and  _fuck,_ if it’s not the hottest thing he’s ever heard.

Dean is lost in her, in the way she smells, the way she feels, hands buried in his hair. She’s trying to contain herself because they have limited time alone but ends up grabbing anything she can, one hand fisting the back of his shirt, pulling him close, kisses getting sloppy. For a moment he forgets where he is and  _grinds_ against her. The arch of her body is intense and the sound that leaves her lips could kill him right then and there.

“Honey?”

_Shit._

They jump apart, chests heaving, eyes wild, his hair a mess, her clothes rumpled. Dean has to shake himself out of his reverie and mouth ‘ _talk_ ’. Y/n’s eyes are panicked and wide.  _How long were they out there?_

“Y-yes? Dad?” Her voice is shaky and she’s running her hands through her hair. Chest expanding as she takes deep breaths to calm herself down.

“Are you okay?” Footsteps. Dean sharply motions towards the sound of her dad’s voice with his head. Y/n walks rapidly and rounds the corner, leaning against it. He hears her laugh awkwardly.

“Yeah, I’m- I’m fine, why?” He purses his lips together and hopes her dad isn’t too smart to figure out she’s breathless and her clothes are creased. Hands smoothing out his shirt, he tries to level his heartbeat.

“Were you… crying?”

“Wh-“ she cuts herself off. “Yeah, uh,” Dean sees her running her hand through her hair again. “It- it’s been a rough day, y’know?”

“Aw, baby.” He coos. “Was it the Winchester boy? Did he do somethin’?”

“Dad,  _no_ , Dean… he’s the one that’s been, uh, helping me.” Dean cringes. “H-he’s been real good to me, I promise.”

“Okay, honey. But I don’t want you protecting him if he’s done something to you, okay? And you know my door’s always open.”

“Thanks Dad,” she says softly and Dean, as much as the beef between him and the old man hasn’t settled yet, appreciates how much the guy cares for his daughter.

“You calm down and get inside. Everyone’ll be leaving in a bit.” He sees her nod. “And hey, speaking of, have you seen Dean?”

“Uh,” she clears her throat. “No, no I haven’t, why?”

“His brother’s lookin’ for him. Tell him if you find him, yeah?”

“Yeah, I will.” Dean waits until the door’s closed, before sneaking up behind her. His arms wrap around her waist. Y/n sighs and falls back into him, hands going over his and tangling their fingers together. Dean drops kisses on the side of her neck and tightens his arms around her, before nosing briefly and nipping at the skin right under her ear.

“I’m not done with you yet.” He growls.

“Dean!”

* * *

He loves her.

There’s no doubt in his mind about it anymore.

They’re on his bed, alone in Dean’s house. She’s laying on him, head under his chin, hand cradled in his and his favorite Eric Clapton vinyl spinning on his old, beat-up, hand-me-down record player. Lingering cigarette smoke dances in the air, originated from the smoked joint that’s resting on his night stand, one they’d shared as stereotypically curious teenagers do –he isn’t eager to make it a habit.

When the words ‘ _I love you’_  become tangible in his train of thought, he expects denial, terror and the end of the world really, and he prepares for it, but nothing happens. It’s just an odd feeling of calm, as if the words  _belong_ there, settling in the back of his mind as a solid weight of comforting truth.  _Warmth_ , like slipping in bed after a long day. So,  _yeah_ , he loves her. Entirely, irrevocably and unconditionally.

What he wants more than spewing vowels and verbs that he  _can’t_  (yet) let out of his lips, is to show her. It’s not an easy emotion to convey, but he wants to try anyway. He wants to stroke a lazy curve down the length of her back, admire her, hold her, kiss her kissable lips until he can’t breathe anymore. Protect her from the world.

He plants a tender kiss on the top of her head.

She hums and noses over his peck like a sleepy cat, squeezing his hand briefly.

“Stay over?” he mumbles. A deep breath later,

“I thought that was a given,” she murmurs back. His chest rumbles with a hum. “Now, talk to me.” Dean cracks an amused eye open, looking at her curiously.

“What?”

“Your chest vibrates when you talk; it feels good,  _talk to me_.” She leaves no room for argument. He chuckles deeply. Instead of talking, Dean begins humming along to the song that’s playing and Y/n all but  _purrs,_ instinctively curling up a bit more. Calloused fingers leave her hand, which falls on his neck, and thread in her hair, brushing through it delicately.  

They fall asleep.

Next thing Dean knows, he’s awoken by a crash. In his sleepy, groggy state, somehow having ended up in a different side of the bed, it doesn’t register in his head for a moment. Then there’s another loud sound and fear rises in his chest because where’s Sam? He’s not- he’s at that kid’s,  _Mark’s_  house, okay, he’s safe, Sammy is safe and  _fine_. How is Y/n still sleeping? The loud groan that comes from the living room is undoubtedly John’s.

The eldest Winchester curses and shoves the covers off of him. Y/n groans and mumbles something and as much as he would love to stay here and hold her, watch her sleep for a little while longer and tease her about the tiny,  _tiny_  spot of drool on his pillow tomorrow morning, he has to handle this.

He tucks her in a little better (the way she clutches the blanket makes his urge to stay so much stronger) and walks out the room, closing the door soundlessly behind him. Bare feet padding on naked flooring towards the living room and  _dammit,_ this place smells like a god damn dump again.

Here he is. John  _I’m-in-a-constant-state-of-pitiful-misery_ Winchester, slumped in the arm chair that’s been shoved four feet from where it’s supposed to be, with a bottle of  _something_  barely hanging from his grasp. His clothes are dirty, his lip split, jaw angrily swollen and cheekbone bleeding. The right side of him is green and brown, grass stained, and Dean can only guess how hard whoever he fought with shoved him to the ground. From the tear on the knee of his jeans, he assumes pretty darn hard.

Dean knows better than to try and pull the bottle away from his father’s hand.

Now it’s a game of chance. He’ll either have to carry John up to his bedroom or wake him up. He doesn’t wanna risk getting punched in the face while he attempts to carry him, so he opts for choice number two.

“Pst,  _Dad_ ,” he whispers, shaking the man’s shoulder gently. “C’mon, wake up.” John mumbles and it’s nowhere near as cute as Y/n’s little dreamy murmurs. Groaning, his scruffy father blinks his eyes open.

“Whaddaya  _want_?” He huffs loudly, hand instinctively pulling the neck of the bottle to his lips.

“You gotta get to bed.” Dean tries to put a hand under the guy’s armpit and pull him up, but John resists, pulling his arm sharply away from his son’s grasp.

“I’ll do w-whatever I fucking want.” Harsh, slurred words Dean hears every damn time. The bottle John was holding slips as he tries to drink again, falling on the floor with a loud clunk. It doesn’t break and Dean thanks God for it. “Useless piece of-“

“Dad-” John grabs the bottle and throws it on the floor angrily, this time glass shattering, hundreds of tiny shards spreading out on the floor. “Son of a bitch,  _really_  Dad?!” There’s no way. Y/n has to have woken up from that. “C’mon. Get up. Right  _now._ ” He takes John’s elbow and hauls him up forcefully.

“Let me go you-“

“Shut  _up_.”

Dean swings his dad’s arm over his shoulder and guides him to the bedroom, avoiding stepping on pieces of glass. John grumbles and curses, almost falls asleep on his eldest son’s shoulder and it’s all he –as in Dean- has not to toss him on the ground and let him sleep there. As they move down the hall, his bedroom door opens. Hand on the door frame, Y/n’s worried gaze falls on him.

He doesn’t meet her eyes.

He carries his father down the hall to his bedroom, chest heavy, like his lungs are filled with liquid cement, and lets him fall face first on the mattress. He picks up his legs with a huff and places them, somewhat angrily, on the bed.

When he passes by his room and returns to the living room, Y/n is nowhere to be seen.

His heart sinks.

Of course she’d leave, there’s nothing there for her. This shit-life Dean’s been leading is just that-  _shit_ \- and there’s absolutely no reason for her to stay. John has to ruin everything, as per-fucking-usual. He ruined his wife, Sammy’s future, his  _own_  life and now Dean’s chance with Y/n. John Winchester chased away the girl his son fell in love with. This is how it’s supposed to be. Dean exists to serve, first his brother then his dad. He can’t be happy. He can’t have it easy. It’s good she left. He’s no good for her. She d-

“Where do you keep your brooms?” She peeks out of the kitchen, mindful of the shards on the floor. Dean’s train of thought halts sharply, breaks. She’s still there?

“What’re you still doing here?” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. But she shouldn’t be here. She deserves someone better. Someone with ambitions and potential and a  _future_. He’s toxic and worthless and most definitely doesn’t deserve her.

“Where do you keep your brooms, Dean?” She repeats, tone a little heavy with irritation. He needs to remove himself from her life. Needs to let her find someone good. Someone that’ll make her happy. Someone who has the money to take her out on expensive dates, not pull her in his room and listen to  _music_  like a cheap idiot, someone who’s not pathetic.  _You’re none of that you useless sack of shit_.

“Get out.”

“Listen, I’ve only been to your house like five times, are you really gonna make me go through a scavenger hunt?”

“Leave, Y/n.” She huffs and steps over the mess, feet shoved in his oversized flippers.

“I wanna help-”

“I don’t  _need_ your help!” he yells. The house stills.All he can hear is the toxic thoughts in his head swirling and howling and clawing at the bone of his skull. He has to protect her from himself, has to push her away.

Through his haze he sees her. She steps in front of him (when did she get so close?), soft hands on his cheeks gently. Y/n holds his gaze for three seconds (it feels like an eternity) and pulls him down to her, lips firmly planted against his.

Dean doesn’t move. His eyebrows scrunch up, tears stinging against the back of his eyelids. He can’t even push her away. He can’t do anything right.

* * *

The air is chilly, biting and nipping his skin. To Dean it’s sobering, gives him something to grip on, something he can use to escape his thoughts with.

Cigarette light between his dirty fingers, he thinks how his lungs must hate him by now, three months of uselessly doing this. How has this become his escape? It doesn’t even feel good. It makes him light headed and not the good kind. He doesn’t know why that packet of cigarettes has become his way out- it doesn’t  _feel_ like it. He doesn’t  _feel_  calmer or any better after every drag. It seems he just smokes for the hell of it. To feel a bit like a rebel, to watch the smoke swirl in front of his face.

Green eyes falling towards it, now short enough to burn him. And maybe he’ll let it.

He clears his throat as if he’s clearing his thoughts.

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t want to see her face, doesn’t want to look at the streaks of dry tears that stain her cheeks and know that it was him that caused it.

“I know.”

Dean will never understand why she stuck around. He’s nothing worth fighting for, nothing worth clinging to. Yet here she is, flicking the filter of her cigarette, ash falling on the pavement like residing dust. He takes a small drag out of his own and lets it out through his teeth, watching it dance skillfully in the air.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, I don’t know why I keep doing this. Keep tryin’a push you away.” Rough hands running over his face, before he feels the burn on his fingers and flinches. He looks at the bud briefly then puts it out on the wood of the picnic bench under him and flicks it away.

“You think I deserve better.”

“Don’t you?”

“Are we really going to have this conversation  _again_?” Dean turns to look at her. Her piercing, cat-like eyes are going right through him and he holds her gaze but he’s sorta numb, drifting off. Like his mind is detached from his body. A huff, eyes looking away. Small, black boots landing on gravel and she’s- she’s pacing in front of him. She drops the cigarette, stomps on it (and Dean can’t help himself but look at it like that’s  _his_  boot crushing  _her_  heart earlier that day. It’s dramatic but he’ll never forget her crumpling expression at his harsh words.)

There’s silence for a little while, only sound in the quiet park being her heavy shoes against tiny rocks and the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Grass having made its presence permanent with its scent in the air while the breeze combs through it, and- Dean just can’t handle his emotions very well, right now. Feeling like there’s a cracked dam on his heart, ready to break and release all of its pressure in his body. Like cheap glue is well past its expiring date and will no longer do the trick, will no longer hold him together.

“Listen,” fingers running through her hair. A sigh. “I know you think you’re taking…  _advantage_  of me or something, and you want me to just be happy, but…” her eyes turn to his. “You’re not someone I’m just meant to let go of. I’ve seen myself with and without you, seen myself at my best and at my worst and I just, I  _know_ , you’re the one that makes me my best.”

His heart is stuttering and overflowing with hot emotion. The three words are  _right there_ on the tip of his tongue and… no, he can’t do that to her. Protest cold on his lips, “Y/n, I-”

“ _No_ ,” she cuts him off, sniffling, “no. You think you’re some  _horrible,_  worthless  _thing_  and that you don’t deserve me, but you know what?  _Fuck that_. Fuck that mentality. I know what I want. I want  _you_. So unless you  _truly_ , genuinely don’t want to be with me, if you want an out, this  _thing_ between us to end,  _okay_. But I can’t lose you unless you want me to. So, say it now or just let me lov-” then his lips are on hers.

It takes her a second but she throws herself into him, hands fisting his shirt tightly, his large ones holding her face. Lips pulling on lips, passionate and longing, as if they’ve found something they’d lost. Soft nips and nibbles, the magnetic pull that’s always been there between them, and the taste of cigarette smoke and, and  _her_.

“You,” a single word drenched in emotion. Stubbly chin scratchy against her soft skin. “You are everything.”  


End file.
